


Boxing Day Panto

by fengirl88



Series: Bad Language [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Baker Street Triangle, Humour, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-15
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back early from Christmas with Mummy and Mycroft.  This is not as good an idea as he thought it would be.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/149298">A Burst Pipe Problem</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [megan_moonlight](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=megan_moonlight).



> megan_moonlight asked _months_ ago for a fic in which Sherlock comes back to Baker Street on Boxing Day and finds out what has been happening in his absence; my thanks to her and kalypso_v for their suggestions.

**Act One: Sherlock**

 

221b is unexpectedly quiet when Sherlock lets himself in, listening to the purr of the car as it pulls away. He'd have thought John would be up already – it's nearly 11 – but there's no sign of him. Odd.

He notices the Scrabble board leaning drunkenly against the coffee-table. Scrabble tiles all over the sitting-room floor. Very odd. John doesn't usually play Scrabble, and it's really not like him to leave a mess.

They've had several rows over the past eleven months because of John's silly ideas about tidiness. Sherlock doesn't know why anybody needs to be as tidy as all that. It's a small price to pay for having a flatmate who's invaluable in so many other ways, of course, but it's irritating just the same. Still, it looks as if he's loosening up a bit at last.

More than a bit, actually, Sherlock realizes, scanning the rest of the room. There's a saucepan sitting on the hearth. Not to mention a _poker_ sitting in the saucepan. Two glasses on the floor, dregs of something red and silty.

Sherlock sniffs. Mulled wine.

(?)

Candles all over the place, too. Burnt to their stumps.

(??)

He peers suspiciously into the kitchen. Different story there: clean pots and dishes in the rack on the draining-board, nothing in the sink. He checks the fridge: leftovers wrapped neatly in foil or in plastic boxes. Everything just as he'd expect to find it after John's been cooking.

John's quite a good cook. Maybe Sherlock should have stayed here for Christmas after all, though it would have upset Mummy. At least then he wouldn't have had to put up with bloody _Mycroft_.

Christmas Day with John might have been quite pleasant. He's not bad company even if he does have a weakness for crap telly. Though he gets unreasonably annoyed when Sherlock points out the glaringly obvious clues in those stupid detective dramas he likes, which can be rather a nuisance.

Lestrade wouldn't even have _spotted_ the clues. He's an idiot, of course, like most people. Wouldn't have said anything even if he did; not wanting to spoil John's fun. _Sentimental_ idiot.

Probably just as well to leave them to it. Nice dull ordinary Christmas Day they must have had.

Not Sherlock's idea of fun at all.

He looks back at the mess in the sitting-room. If John was really too drunk to clear up before he went to bed, he'll have a shocking hangover this morning. Sherlock smirks. He's looking forward to teasing John about that. Maybe he should play the violin for a bit and wake him up. Can't let the man sleep all day.

Footsteps overhead. Ah. No need for the violin yet. Save it for later.

 _Whistling_. That's unexpected. John sounds more cheerful than he usually does after a heavy night. Perhaps mulled wine doesn't give you a hangover, though you'd think it would be even worse than the normal kind.

Never understood the appeal himself. Revolting stuff. _Sticky_.

The footsteps get nearer and Sherlock ducks behind the sitting-room door. Better than the violin trick: he'll jump out and surprise John instead. Of course John will be annoyed and say he's being childish, but after two days of being driven mad by Mycroft, Sherlock _wants_ to annoy someone. Anyway, John never stays angry with him for long.

John comes into the kitchen, still whistling. Not just cheerful but positively _happy_. And stark naked.

He looks surprisingly good with no clothes on. Sherlock hasn't seen him like this before, but it's an experience he wouldn't mind repeating. Or prolonging, given that it's already happening.

Maybe jumping out at him isn't such a good idea. John might get self-conscious and decide he needs to put some clothes on. Which would be a pity.

He really _is_ rather pleasant to look at like this.

John puts the kettle on and gets the tea out of the cupboard. Two mugs.

Sherlock is pleased, then confused. How does John know he's back already? Why hasn't he said hello? And why would he be making Sherlock a cup of tea without getting dressed first?

Sherlock's just about to say something, though he's really not sure what, when he hears footsteps on the stairs again. Coming down from John's room.

This person isn't whistling; he's singing what sounds like some dreadful old music-hall number.

“Oh, I must have everything Hungarian,  
It's the land where troubles disappear...”

John laughs. Not the contemptuous laugh which the song and the singer so richly deserve. It's a purely joyful sound. _Younger_ , too; the way Sherlock imagines John might have sounded before he went to Afghanistan.

 _Huh_.

“D'you want some tea?” John calls.

The singing stops.

“Best offer I've had all morning,” the singer says, coming into the kitchen.

 _Lestrade_.

Not naked, thank God.

Wearing John's dressing-gown, though, which is almost worse.

Lestrade comes and stands behind John, slides his arms around John's waist and kisses the side of his neck.

“Mmm,” John says, leaning back into the embrace.

“You OK?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock's not sure what to make of the question: solicitous, seductive, showing-off, or a mixture of all three. Hard to tell. He knows he _really_ doesn't like it, though.

“Better than OK,” John says, and there's no mistaking the way _he_ sounds.

 _Well shagged_ , Lestrade would call it. _Used_ to call it, in the days when they –

Huh. Sherlock could have sworn he'd deleted _that_ little episode from his hard drive.

Lestrade won't have told John about the two of them, Sherlock's sure of that. And John will be _furious_ when he finds out. Sherlock's almost tempted to step out from behind the door and tell him right now. Except John might think he's just trying to spoil things because he's jealous. Which is an absurd idea, and utterly beneath him.

Sherlock keeps still, keeps quiet. Wishes he hadn't, the next minute. Because seeing John turn around in Lestrade's arms and kiss him full on the mouth makes Sherlock more uncomfortable than anything he can recall for a very long time.

“Come back to bed,” Lestrade says, when they break apart for air.

John nips at his jaw and kisses him behind the ear. He pushes his hands inside the dressing-gown.

“Give me a break, Watson,” Lestrade groans. “I'm too old for the kitchen table or up against the sink.”

John laughs again, that easy delighted sound, and Sherlock's gut knots with what he tells himself is embarrassment. Because it _is_ embarrassing.

Next year he is definitely doing something else for Christmas. A Trappist monastery might be a good place to go. Even if it does upset Mummy.

Lestrade and John pick up the mugs of tea and go back upstairs. He hears John giggling about something and Lestrade saying “Mind my tea, you prat!” Hears the bedroom door open and shut again. More laughter.

Sherlock emerges from behind the sitting-room door, feeling deflated and distinctly aggrieved. This is _not_ how he was planning to spend Boxing Day. It's almost as bad as being with Mycroft.

 _Hell is other people_. Can't remember who said that, doesn't know why he remembers the saying, but it's true. Hell is, in this case, bloody Lestrade upstairs shagging Sherlock's bloody flatmate. Again.

He's not staying in to listen to _that_ , thank you very much.

He's about to storm out of the flat when he gets a better idea. He lets himself out quietly, tiptoes down the stairs and goes out into the street. Waits until he thinks they've had nearly long enough, allowing time for a bit of tea-drinking beforehand just in case.

It's a delicate calculation, but he thinks he's probably got it right. Lestrade's not as young as he used to be. John's not as young as _Sherlock_ used to be, either.

Not being a sentimental idiot – unlike some people he could mention – Sherlock's not going to think about that. Time to swing into action.

He lets himself back into 221b, banging the door hard behind him and shouting for John at the top of his voice.

It's been a rotten Christmas so far, but he has a feeling it's just about to get better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Act Two: Lestrade**

 

“John? I'm back! _John_! Where are you? What are you _doing_?”

Not the most tactful question, in the circumstances.

One minute you're having a festive shag, Lestrade thinks bitterly, and the next thing you know you're starring in a bloody Carry On film.

It's _completely_ fucking typical of Sherlock to turn up just as Watson and Lestrade are getting nicely into their stride again. Bastard couldn't have timed it worse if he'd done it on purpose.

Next time Lestrade sees Mycroft blasted Holmes he is seriously going to give the supercilious tosser a piece of his mind. No way bloody Sherlock could have made it back unassisted this early from Christmas at Mummy's. Mycroft must have sent the car, probably desperate to get shot of him, hardly surprising –

“John! You _can't_ still be asleep, it's gone eleven. JOHN!”

The shouting from downstairs is getting louder. Also closer.

“Fuck!” John gasps, gripping Lestrade's shoulders tighter. Lestrade can feel John starting to clench around his cock, he's getting dangerously close himself now –

 _should have locked the bloody bedroom door, not that that's much use with Sherlock around, oh Christ, fuck, **fuck**_ –

“ _Erősebben_ ,” John hisses in his ear.

Startled, Lestrade does as he's told, thrusting harder as John cries out and squeezes his thighs around him so tight Lestrade can hardly breathe. He's getting dizzy and there's a lot of confused shouting, not all of it coming from outside the bedroom door. Then his own orgasm hits him and he can't see or hear anything distinctly for a while.

When he comes back to himself, still pretty dazed, he finds he's literally in the middle of a massive row. Or rather, Sherlock is trying to have a massive row with John over Lestrade's shoulder, and John is not having it. John is pointing out that if Sherlock goes barging uninvited into other people's bedrooms he has only himself to blame if he sees something he doesn't like.

Lestrade's not sure whether to be more impressed by John's coolness under fire or by his ability to say anything at all so soon after a shag like that, especially flat on his back with Lestrade still collapsed on top of him.

It's probably just as well _one_ of them is able to deal with Sherlock; Lestrade is not going to attempt to speak at the moment. Or move. Or do anything much apart from breathe, really.

John pulls the bedding protectively up over them, giving Lestrade's arse an affectionate squeeze in passing, and goes on calmly resisting all Sherlock's attempts to cause trouble.

“I don't care if you've invited Mrs Hudson for lunch, Sherlock. It's your problem, not mine, and you'll just have to deal with it yourself. There are plenty of leftovers in the fridge and I'm sure you can find a shop open somewhere if we're out of milk. Or you can tell her you made a mistake. It's entirely up to you. But whatever you're going to do, you'd better go and get on with it, and leave us in peace for the rest of the day. _Now_.”

Very much to Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock goes. Muttering something about being _scarred for life_ (“Go _away_ , Sherlock!”), but he goes. And stays gone.

“ _Invited Mrs Hudson for lunch_ ,” John says indignantly. “Bollocks. He must think I was born yesterday.”

“Nngh,” Lestrade says. He still can't speak.

“Interfering with other people's sex lives just because _he's_ never seen the point of it,” John grumbles.

Lestrade has a sudden and very vivid memory of Sherlock enthusiastically sucking him off in an alleyway after their first case together, five years ago. He opens his mouth to say something about that, because he really ought to tell John before this thing between them goes any further. But all that comes out is “Mmfff.”

“Sorry,” John says, grinning. “That's enough Sherlock for one day, right?”

He kisses him so enthusiastically that Lestrade feels slightly dizzy, and the moment passes. He'll tell John soon. Very soon. No point spoiling a nice lie-in, now Sherlock's finally buggered off and left them in peace.

Lestrade doesn't think he's ever had a shag that ended quite like that one, though Christ knows he's had some bizarre shags in his time. He starts laughing, thinking about it, and John joins in.

John has a nice laugh. Lestrade thinks it would be good to hear that sound more often. A _lot_ more often. Preferably without Sherlock anywhere within a ten-mile radius.

The front door of 221b slams again, making the windows shake, and they hear Sherlock hailing a passing taxi.

Lestrade doesn't know anybody else who could do that on Boxing Day in Baker Street. Man seems to have supernatural powers when it comes to pulling cabs out of thin air.

He wonders uneasily where Sherlock has gone. Hopes he remembered to switch off his mobile last night, because the last thing he needs right now is a string of furious texts from Donovan or Dimmock.

Maybe Sherlock can find something to do with himself that doesn't involve being a grade A fucking nuisance to Scotland Yard. But Lestrade doubts it.

“You worrying about him?” John asks.

It's hardly a surprising question, in the circumstances.

“Mm,” Lestrade says, non-committal.

“Thought so,” John says. “Come on, Lestrade, it's still Christmas. Better things to do with the day than worry about my tosser of a flatmate.”

He starts stroking Lestrade's back, running his hands down from the nape of Lestrade's neck to the cleft of his buttocks. _Mmm_.

“'S nice,” Lestrade says, feeling his cock twitching unexpectedly.

“Ha,” John says smugly, registering the twitch. “Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”

His hand slides lower, pushing between Lestrade's thighs and fondling his balls.

“Christ, Watson, I'm not twenty, you know,” Lestrade protests.

“I know,” John says. “Wouldn't be interested in you if you were. I like older men.”

“Cheeky sod,” Lestrade says. “How old are you anyway?”

“Thirty-nine,” John says. “Old enough to know better, young enough to start again.”

Lestrade's not sure if what John has in mind is a new start in life or another round of shagging. Thinks it's probably both. Wonders what they put on the certificate if you die of sexual exhaustion, an ambition he never seriously expected to fulfil.

“OK then,” he says. “Hungarian lesson number 4 coming right up. Have to warn you, this one's a bit of a tongue-twister so you'll need your wits about you.”

“Good,” John says, calm as you please but with a glint in his eye that makes Lestrade feel slightly breathless in advance. “I might need to go over lessons 1 to 3 again as well, though. Just to make absolutely sure I've grasped the basics.”

Definitely the best Christmas ever, Lestrade thinks, groaning happily. Probably taking years off his life, of course. But what a way to go.

**Author's Note:**

> in the long gap between megan_moonlight's original request to me and this fic, suzie_shooter wrote a lovely John/Lestrade plus Sherlock story for her, [How Do You Like Your Eggs In The Morning?](http://suzie-shooter.livejournal.com/473260.html), which you should rush off and read _now_ if you haven't already done so.
> 
> The song Lestrade is singing is "I Must Have Everything Hungarian", originally sung by [Douglas Byng](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Byng) in his adaptation of a Hungarian operetta, Maritza.
> 
> "Erősebben" means "harder" in Hungarian; thank you to flannelgiraffe on LiveJournal for correcting my earlier mistake.


End file.
